The Salvagers
by Similaun
Summary: The Blight is gone, and the Salvagers get to work at restoring Morrowind; but in the meanwhile, things in Cyrodiil take a turn for the worse. This is what happened after the events of Tribunal and before the death of Uriel Septim.
1. Chapter 1: Faith

_3 E 432, 22 Second Seed._

_

* * *

_

It was almost an hour past midnight, but the old man who sat in the top of the tower was still awake. His table was strewn with documents; some of them were encrypted, others bore enchantments and wax seals or other signs of authenticity. He carelessly shoved them about, sometimes leafing through a stack to only to put them down with a slightly disappointed sigh. Any fool could see that his sources were incomplete, but still he knew that there was a greater pattern to it—a way in which it all made sense. He just didn't have all the pieces yet.

He knew when he would get them, and he knew where they fit. Every time he received a report he would open it hastily, hoping it would perhaps differ in some way from the future his madness had showed him. But it was not to be, and the picture they revealed made him shudder.

He rose out of his chair and walked out onto the parapets of White Gold Tower. Outside, the air was chill but clear, and his old friends the stars winked calmly at him. The last time crisis came the stars had been there for him, telling him to send a prisoner on what seemed to be little more than a doomed quest. But the prisoner had prevailed against all odds and prevented the Empire from an end at the hands of a mad god and his vile construct.

He smiled briefly. Perhaps this time he should just pull another criminal out of the Imperial Prisons and hope for the best. He had thought of that many times, but each and every time he had decided that he would only do that when all else had failed. It meant that he had approximately one and a half year left to try everything else that could be tried. It was little time, but it was all he had to find a way around the horrible, twisted future his dreams had revealed to him.

The Emperor went back inside and slowly sat down into his chair. He pulled a piece of empty parchment towards him and dipped his quill into the ink pot, sighing as he did so. To do this was to give in to his desperation, but he had little choice.

It was time to recall the Blades' most illustrious agent to Cyrodiil City.

* * *

Several weeks before the Emperor of Tamriel finally succumbed to necessity, another old and powerful man had a crisis of faith—albeit a much more religious kind of faith.

In the past, Archcanon Tholer Saryoni had been the highest authority of the Tribunal Temple, save for the almsivi themselves. He had guarded the faith of his people against the Imperial Cult and the heresy of the so-called Nerevarines, and he had led the Ordinators to his best capabilities.

Now he was a broken man, a figurehead fixed firmly to a sinking ship.

It had gone wrong approximately four years ago. There had been no storm clouds or ominous music to warn him when the former prisoner had arrived in Seyda Neen. This former prisoner had only come to Saryoni's attention after the man had wiped out a Sixth House base completely on his own—a heroic deed—only to contract the incurable disease corprus. The Archcanon had even considered granting the guy a nice burial on Temple ground, only to discover that the man had actually _recovered_.

Things had gone rapidly gone downhill from there. A frantic search action led to the knowledge that the man was out of the Temple's reach, having ventured deep into the ashlands on his path to the Cavern of the Incarnate. The next thing the shaken priest had heard was that the man had recovered the Moon-and-Star and had been accepted as the Urshilaku Nerevarine.

At this time, Saryoni had come to the bitter realization that he was supposed to have stopped this disaster before it came this far. With gritted teeth, and a dull aching pain in his heart, he wrote the letter inviting the man to his office if he would actually succeed to become the Nerevarine and Hortator. After that, Saryoni's days were dark and filled with prayer. It would mean the downfall of everything he had ever believed in if this man would prevail.

The Archcanon watched as the Ashlanders surrendered to the Nerevarine like leaves surrendered to the autumn storms: they held on for a little while and were then completely overpowered. Then it was time for the Great Houses to fall.

The Archcanon watched as house Hlaalu gave in easily, even greedily; as House Telvanni succumbed thoughtlessly, never even stopping to mourn the murder of their Archmagister; and House Redoran fell last.

The Archcanon watched as Bolvyn Venim fought the Nerevarine in the dusty, deadly confines of the Arena, and he clung on to the life of the Archmaster of Redoran as if it was his own. Bolvyn was a superb fighter, but Saryoni saw from the beginning that he was doomed. The former prisoner was a far deadlier fighter than the nobleman; he was not dueling, he was simply moving in for the kill.

Bolvyn Venim died with his fingers clawing at the dry arena sand and his blood-filled mouth still spilling curses. The part of Saryoni that was Archcanon died with him.

That evening, a soft clicking at his door told Saryoni of the arrival of the Nerevarine. The priest had momentarily considered trying to kill the man himself, in spite of Vivec's orders to give the man all the aid that could be spared. But in the back of his mind Saryoni rebelled. After all, the Dissident Priests had been right—the almsivi were false Gods, made divine by the same vile technology that powered Dagoth Ur. Vivec was a false god, and Saryoni did not have to obey him.

However, Saryoni was also a man who had lived a priest's life of self-restraint; and even now he stood face to face with the man who had destroyed his life, he kept himself under control. This man who stood before him was on his way to destroy Dagoth Ur. He needed to live, and to cast the false god down.

They did not need much time to exchange the necessary information. Then the Nerevarine, whom Saryoni now knew had been born as Dorvaim, proceeded on to the palace of Vivec and left him in a cold and empty office. At least, Saryoni thought, Morrowind would be saved. He was fairly sure of that now. There had been a kind of eagerness in the young man's eyes that a less experienced man might have interpreted as youthful enthusiasm, but Saryoni had noted with a dreadful certainty that it was hunger. This man literarily _hungered _to slaughter his way towards Dagoth Ur.

Azura had chosen the right man for this task. If this Dorvaim can't do it, Saryoni thought bitterly, then no-one will. He just wished that the Incarnate would have been someone who was more like the noble lord Indoril Nerevar of legend, and not this... tool of destruction.

It was the last thought he wasted on the subject of the Nerevarine himself. Saryoni, who had found himself unable to cast aside his old Gods and face the void that lay beyond, set himself to keeping the Temple upright through this test of faith. He succeeded reasonably well. The Temple swayed, but did not fall; and when the Nerevarine actually succeeded in destroying Dagoth Ur and the Heart of Lorkhan he even allowed himself to feel hopeful about the whole matter.

Unfortunately for the old priest, Dagoth Ur wouldn't be the only god the Nerevarine destroyed.

It was on a chill, overcast winter's day that a messenger brought word of the death of both Almalexia and Sotha Sil to the High Fane. The man, who was completely stunned by the news as well, could only watch on as the Archcanon broke down and cried.

Saryoni had never truly recovered from the horrifying moment in which Venim had died and his Gods had become mere lying mortals, but he had not been destroyed. This time, he was; and when the Dissident Priests came to visit him a week after Almalexia's death, he had changed into a bitter, brittle old man.

There were only two of them—he knew Mehra Milo, and the man next to her must be the Priests' leader, Gilvas Barelo. Their faces were grave, though Saryoni could not fathom why, and Milo actually seemed nervous.

Barelo was much more composed. 'We offer our condolences to you, Archcanon,' he said when they were seated. 'You might not believe us, but we grieve for her as much as you do.'

Saryoni just sighed and looked at Mehra. 'I thought better of you, Milo,' he said softly. 'Gloating over a broken old man is not like you. Did he drag you along?'

She coughed, looking embarrassed. 'We did not come to gloat, father,' she said respectfully. 'We were sent here to help.'

'I have decided to see you because you were right,' Saryoni said, still speaking to Mehra. He felt his voice grow thick. 'You were right; I was wrong. This moment is yours. But ask no more of me.' He rose behind his desk, feeling his joints protest as he forced to stand up completely straight. 'Now it is time for you to go. Leave me, and tell the world that you were right.'

Saryoni had feared that they would think they had some message for him, and his fear was proven right when they made no move to stand up. 'Leave me,' he said again, feeling his composure crumble. 'Please let me grieve alone. Leave this…old man… with the shreds of his dignity intact.'

'What if we could give this old man some of his dignity back?' Gilvas Barelo asked.

'So you _did_ come to play with me,' Saryoni mumbled. They had come to pester him, like little children poking a caged animal with sharp sticks. It came naturally to all those who played the game of power... but he was still a mighty man and not some glazy-eyed and broken dancing bear. He slowly lowered his hand and knocked three times on his table. 'I am not a marble you can push around,' he told Gilvas with a voice that quavered only slightly. 'You will go now. I still have that power.'

There were heavy footsteps outside. Gilvas Barelo looked too surprised to say anything, but Mehra Milo bit the inside of her cheek and looked thoughtful. Saryoni closed his eyes and prayed to a God he knew to be a dying mortal. Keep your mouth shut, he pleaded. I am so brittle I could break at any moment... don't talk, now.

But Mehra Milo did talk, apparently casting aside whatever restraints she'd had. 'He went to Vivec,' she said, just as the Ordinators threw open the door and marched in. 'The Nerevarine went into the palace.'

She would have been too late to convince him, if not for the Ordinators freezing in place when they heard what she said.

Saryoni slowly turned his head to look at the captain of the Ordinators. 'That's a lie,' he said, hoping very hard that it was.

The hardened warrior actually shrank back from the Archcanon's pleading eyes. 'I heard the patrols say they saw a shadow slip out two days ago,' he stammered. 'But it was nonsense. We checked for traces of intruders and there weren't any.'

'The damn man has a _key_,' Saryoni said tiredly, more to himself then to the captain. The Nerevarine had always made him run after the facts, and he hated that.

Then he felt an icy load drop into his stomach. The Nerevarine had come here after killing two gods of the Temple... what if he had been after the whole pantheon?

They all must have seen the sudden change in his expression, because the room went very quiet. It seemed like nobody even dared to breathe.

'I—I am going to the Temple,' he announced, his voice suddenly shaking with emotion. A moment ago he'd held himself in check, but now fear threatened to flood him. 'Keep—them—keep them here. If I do not return…'

He turned around and took a deep breath. 'If that happens, do whatever you will.'

Saryoni forced himself to calmly step out of the back door, closing it firmly shut behind him. He then stood there for a moment, shivering, contemplating the future. The ornate dagger on his belt suddenly felt very heavy, but in an oddly comforting way. My way out is right there, he thought, slowly lowering his hand to rest it upon the hilt.

Behind the door, in his office, he heard the captain say: 'We wait.'

'And if he doesn't come?' another voice said.

'Then we do what whatever we will,' the captain snapped.

The room grew silent once more. No way to go but forward, the Archcanon thought, and he turned around on wobbly knees. He gripped the knife with a shaking hand slowly made his way down the stairs. There was no-one in the hall, and then suddenly he stood outside, facing the splendor of Vivec's palace all on his own. The high stairs towards the single door had never seemed as short as they did now, even with the weight of his many years on his shaking knees.

Too soon, he stood before the door. It took him a couple of tries to get the key into the lock and turned it with much scraping. But then, suddenly, the door noiselessly opened inward and Saryoni stumbled forward into the great domed hall of Vivec.

'You have little faith in Azura,' a familiar voice said.

Saryoni dropped to his knees on the dusty floor. 'I have no faith in Daedra,' he said, staring up at the gracefully floating form his God. 'You have always been my God.'

'That will have to change,' Vivec said. 'Come now, my son, don't cry. Did you really expect me to find me dead by the hand of the incarnation of Nerevar?'

It would have been the most natural of things, Saryoni wanted to yell, it would have been Nerevar's final revenge on those he once trusted above all… but as he sat there on the floor with his tears flowing freely down his face and dropping into the dust, feeling shaken, old and deliriously happy, he could only stammer: 'No, my God. In the depth of my heart, I did not.'

Vivec nodded, apparently pleased. They were both silent then. Saryoni took the time to wipe his eyes and stare at the gold-and-grey form of his God—a form he'd expected to find crumpled in the dust with a dagger in its back.

Finally Vivec spoke again. 'Morrowind is but a wreckage of its former self, much like you are now,' the androgynous god said. 'The Nerevarine and I have spoken long, and we have decided to use our joint influences to make Morrowind strong again, so that the Dunmer can face future challenges without our help. Even now the friends and allies of the Nerevarine are gathering to do what must be done. Some things must be changed; other things must be salvaged.' He looked down sternly at the old Archcanon. 'The faith of the Dunmer is one of the things that must be salvaged. That task will be yours. Return to the High Fane and listen to the Dissident Priests, my son. Work with them to restore the religion of our ancestors.'

'I will, my God,' Saryoni said, pressing his head to the floor.

'Perhaps you will have faith in the Daedra when you are done,' Vivec mused. He then slowly started to float up towards the dusky shadows near the ceiling of his dome; a clear cue to his most faithful subject to leave.

Saryoni struggled with his groaning joints in order to stand up. He felt completely calm now, oddly enough. Perhaps it was the soothing presence of his God—or perhaps he was just too tired to be upset anymore. The priest absently wiped the dust from his forehead as he turned around and stepped outside, closing the door behind him. Salvaging, he thought, slowly inhaling a the fresh winter air.

He turned the word over in his head, not sure if he liked it or not. _I am going to be a Salvager._


	2. Chapter 2: Madness and Sanity

Miles away from the city of Vivec, on a rocky island in Zafirbel bay, a gigantic Telvanni tower stood guard over the sad-looking village of mushroom houses at its feet. Many of the houses were in bad shape; they sagged from a lack of nourishment or from various illnesses, and all that was left of its former Grand Council Hall was just a singed, roofless shell. The boarded-up houses outnumbered the inhabited houses, and the marketplace was empty. The only building that seemed in any way alive was the local Camonna Tong hideout.

Sadrith Mora was dying, collapsing a little further every day, and lord Neloth had locked himself in the high confines of his tower and refused to talk to the pleading of the few citizens he had left. Once in a while he would come out of his private quarters and bark a few orders at the captain of his guard or his Mouth. Then he would lock himself inside again, ignoring their desperation out of some ulterior motive no-one understood.

To lord Neloth—he was no longer Master Neloth—it was all very clear.

He had, of course, expected them to throw him off the council when he publicly denied their orders. That was the natural order of things, after all. He had also been prepared for the following invasion of Sadrith Mora, strengthening the defenses of his tower as much as he could and pulling back all of his guards inside.

What he had not foreseen was that they would not be there for _him_.

The combined might of the Telvanni Council had waltzed into the undefended town, looked around, and proceeded to burn down the market and the council hall. That was all standard fare. But after freeing all the slaves (and treating the villagers with some barrels of sheen), they left. Just like that.

Neloth had been potholed in his tower ever since, furiously gnashing his teeth while waiting on them to come back and finish the job.

No-one came, and it didn't take too long before that fact forced his anger-clogged brain to assess the situation. Did they not want Sadrith Mora anymore? Hadn't they promoted any more vile outlanders to their council to supplant him? Or had even the Telvanni now embraced the outrageous ways of the Empire, and were they just waiting for him to step down?

That last thought always made him furious. It was bad enough that they had changed their ways to fit the mould that the Empire, and more specifically the so-called King Helseth, had made for them. But the fact that they not even tried to kill him was the worst. At least Archmagister Gothren had been removed in the traditional way—with a dagger in his back. Did they somehow think that he wasn't worth the effort?

He _was _worth it, he told himself. He still held Sadrith Mora and the outlying islands of Zafirbel Bay, he still held a Telvanni Tower and all the priceless artifacts hidden within its walls. He was still a mage-lord, a Wizard of his House, even if he was no Master anymore. He still had a network of powerful friends and allies, even now when his income was waning and his estate fell into disrepair. Ha! They were probably just afraid of him, even now when his power grew weaker.

He told himself they would come when his power lessened even more—Archmagister Aryon, or the King, or perhaps even the Nerevarine. And so he waited, meticulously keeping track of the diminishing of his own power and calculating the time at which they _would_ come for him.

They just never did, and the seasons flew by.

It was on a cloudless, clear winter night around the time of Archcanon Saryoni's talk to Vivec that the Elfskerring carried a single man to the ill-maintained docks of Sadrith Mora. Lord Neloth noticed the arrival of this man's mind almost immediately—it was a sharp, cunning mind full of plans and lies. It was the mind of an assassin or another kind of ruthless killer; the kind of man Neloth had been prepared for.

It was unfortunate for the hot-headed Telvanni mage that this man wasn't here to kill him, because he was excellently prepared for that occasion. He was a lot less prepared for what happened instead—with disastrous consequences. As it happened, Neloth had been in the middle of casting a strong Shield spell when the captain of his guard came up into his rooms and told him that the visitor was simply here to negotiate.

'He's _what_?' Neloth exclaimed, completely forgetting about the spell. The built-up magicka in the room fizzled and died out, but he didn't notice. 'Let me get this straight. You're telling me that after they attacked my _town_, they have waited _one and a half year_ just to send someone to _negotiate_? Are they _crazy_?'

The captain, Berengeval, shook his head. 'Well, not exactly, my lord.'

'Not exactly?' Neloth snarled. 'Does any of this sound _sane_ to you, Berengeval?'

Berengeval sighed. 'My lord, he doesn't belong with'—he coughed delicately—'_them_. This man's name is Galos Farethi.'

Neloth could almost hear the rusty cogs of his mind squeak as they turned. 'Orvas Dren's bodyguard?' he asked after a few moments of tense silence. 'What in Oblivion is that man doing here?'

'He wants to negotiate, sir,' Berengeval said, a tired look momentarily crossing his face.

Neloth shook his head. 'I can't waste my attention on scum like that, Berengeval,' he said curtly. 'I need every ounce of my concentration to keep the defenses up. Throw him out.'

'My lord,' Berengeval said, narrowing his eyes in irritation at his lord's stubbornness. 'You can't just...' He suddenly clenched his jaws shut, realizing his mistake, but it was already too late. It was one thing to protest against his master's wishes. It was another thing entirely—usually a _deadly _thing—to tell lord Neloth what he could and couldn't do.

Years of pent-up rage came out in mere seconds. The wizard drew himself up to his full height, his face contorted in anger, his nostrils flaring to suck his lungs full of air that suddenly smelled like ozone. 'DON'T YOU DARE TO TELL ME WHAT TO DO!' Neloth roared. Static crackled in the fabric of their robes and set their hair on end; small lights began to dance through the study. 'I am your LORD, Berengeval!' There was a thunderclap outside, tearing apart the cloudless sky, followed by a score of multi-colored lightning flashes shooting down the side of the tower.

A sudden wind picked up and fluttered the pages of the books that lay strewn around on the floor. It rattled the inkpots and whistled through the dead potted plants, tearing at everything as if it wished to pick them up and throw them about. Neloth could feel the hundreds of enchantments he had placed around the tower budge under the tremendous force of his anger, and somehow that made him even angrier. _If only everything could be destroyed… like it should have been!_

Through his rage-filled eyes, he saw Berengeval swallow nervously and open his mouth to speak. The damn peasant wanted to tell him what to do, eh? Well, this was what you got when you tried to order the lord of Sadrith Mora about—

He hissed a curse, clenching his fist and swinging it forward. The blow connected only half; years of training had caused the shocked captain to dodge even before he realized what was going on. It was not enough to save him, however. Neloth's fist was encased in a tremendous force of magic, and the glancing blow to Berengeval's chest made a terrible crunching sound as his dreugh cuirass was crushed and the small Bosmer was sent flying. He hit a far wall, and then, awfully slowly, he toppled forward into the gaping levitation hole in the middle of the chamber.

After a few moments there was a crash that sounded to Neloth like someone had thrown a set of kitchen pots down a well. It even echoed.

Suddenly it occurred to him that his mind was awfully clear. He was out of breath, wheezing like an old man, and his face was still very much snarling in fury—but his mind was awake and rational. More importantly, he didn't feel the slightest bit of remorse at what he had just done to his faithful servant. His newfound clarity didn't waste time and informed him that this probably meant he had finally gone insane. Neloth didn't feel insane, but he accepted the knowledge for the moment being.

There was a small groaning sound from the bottom of the levitation hole. Neloth frowned. Implausible as it might be, it seemed that Berengeval was still alive—the bastard.

Neloth gestured and took to the air, gently drifting over to the shaft and peering down. The broken form of his guard captain lay sprawled on the floor below, surrounded by a slowly growing pool of blood. He was coughing now, laboring to breathe. One arm—it didn't seem too badly broken—slowly crawled towards his neck. He's going to use the amulet, Neloth thought. Flesh Made Whole. He might even live to tell the tale…

He floated down the hole in grim determination, noting with satisfaction that no-one had dared to investigate the awful noise yet. When he reached the bottom, he crouched next to the captain's head and firmly took hold of the working arm. Berengeval groaned.

'This wasn't meant to happen,' Neloth whispered, bending over to his captain's ear. 'I attacked you over three measly words… almost killed you… '

One of Berengeval's eyes was swollen shut, but the other turned to stare at Neloth's face, blinking against the blood that flowed into it from the gash in his head.

Neloth let his voice drop even lower. 'But you see, Berengeval…no matter what I do to make it up to you… _you'll_ never forgive _me_.'

An ornate amulet wormed itself from under Berengeval's cracked armor, breaking its chain with a small tug, and floating up to Neloth's face. The dying captain groaned and closed his good eye, his hand feebly twitching under the wizard's strong grip. Neloth smiled as the glittering jewel drifted down into one of his pockets. 'Farewell, Berengeval,' he murmured.

The wizard-lord reached with his magic towards Berengeval's body, delicately wrapping tendrils of power around the man's neck. Then, with a sudden motion of his hand and a snapping sound, Berengeval lay dead on the ground.

'Rest easily, my loyal servant,' Neloth said, sighing more out of annoyance than grief. Now he needed a new guard captain...preferably a relatively meek one.

He swept into the lower area with the blood still on the hem of his robe, noting the shocked looks on his servants' faces with satisfaction. 'Treachery has struck this tower!' Neloth declared in a grand voice.

The servants all recoiled from that statement, gasping in unbelief. Only one man—a muscled, grim-looking guy with a daedric shield—didn't look intimidated, which meant that he was Orvas Dren's lapdog Farethi. For the moment he wasn't important. Neloth drew another big breath and boomed: 'Tonight I have been attacked by my most faithful of servants!'

Neloth could see the fear in their eyes grow. His cleared mind had told him that this was the best route to take—to flaunt his power, so that it would unite them again. Even if they would not believe him, they would at least serve him…

It was almost morning again when he finally returned to his chambers, taking care to float over the pool of half-dried blood where Berengeval had fallen. When he looked around in his quarters he realized that he must have been locked inside there for almost a year now. It had become a messy, musty-smelling place, much in need of some open windows and a very thorough cleaning.

The fight with Berengeval had opened his eyes. He realized that he had wasted a lot of time—time that would have been well-spent at either plotting or backstabbing. Instead he had been holed in here, nursing his wounded pride. It shamed him that he had allowed the council to injure him that much. From now on, he thought, he wouldn't let them take him down that easily again.

Lord Neloth paced a few times up and down the room to let some of his excitement wear off. Then he drew his chair back and carefully sat down behind his desk. It would take at least a month, maybe two, to contact all of his old allies and to get his garrison back onto a semblance of shape. But after that…

He pulled the bell cord next to him, signaling his servants that they could send Orvas' bully up.

Neloth thought only briefly of him before going back to his general plans. It would be an uphill battle, of course. His enemies' power had grown tremendously in the last few years. It would be difficult, no, downright impossible, but it was certainly worth trying—even if it only meant he would die at the end. But the thought of fighting them exited him. There was much to win… so much… and so little to lose.

There was a rushing sound in the levitation shaft, probably made by Galos Farethi. Neloth smiled. _Even if I lose_, he thought, _at least I will be going down the Telvanni way._

* * *

Across the town, on the battlements of Wolverine Hall, a grim-looking Nord bathed his stiff muscles in the first light of the weak winter sun. He had been standing here since the lightning storm had awoken most of the castle, and while the other inhabitants had gone off to sleep after the spectacle had ended, he knew better. If Neloth got angry, he wouldn't keep to one display of power on a night.

So he stood here, watching, wondering where the second outburst was. Maybe the man was fatigued—they had probably felt the raw power of his attack in Tel Vos. Still, something told him this was not quite over yet.

'Morning, Champion,' the voice of a Redguard called.

Hrundi looked over his shoulder to see Hasell come out of the tower. He carried a plate with bread and cheese on it, and he looked cheerful. 'Have been up all night to keep an eye on the old wizard, have you?' asked the Redguard.

Hrundi grunted. 'We know his pattern, Hasell,' he said. 'I'm waiting on the second attack.'

Hasell shrugged. 'Bread?'

'Thanks.'

They both sat down on the battlements; Hasell amused himself by tossing chunks of old bread to the cliff racers, laughing whenever they missed one, and Hrundi just kept his narrowed eyes firmly fixed on Tel Naga.

Suddenly there was a blinding flash of light on the top of Tel Naga. Hasell yelled in surprise, almost falling backwards over the parapet. 'What in Oblivion was _that_?'

'Told you so,' Hrundi said with a grin.

They both leaned over the battlement, eager to see more. There was a second flash of light, and something—or someone—was launched at high speed from the top of Tel Naga, accompanied by a faint yell of surprise.

'He's thrown someone off?' Hasell said, aghast.

Whoever it was suddenly glowed with a purple light and his or her fall slowed considerably. A streak of fire went flying up to the tower, but a tiny figure that was probably Neloth dodged it with ease. Just as the first guy landed, the guards came pouring out of the base of the tower.

'He's not going to survive that,' Hrundi noted sadly.

There was a blue flash where the person had been, and at the same time there was a flash of blue behind them. Both fighters turned around to see an angry-looking Dunmer standing before the door to the Imperial Shrine—a Dunmer they both knew very well.

'_You_!' grated Hrundi, his pity immediately forgotten at the sight of his enemy.

Galos Farethi looked up. 'Oh, _you_,' he said, sounding rather tired. 'Give the Telvanni my regards, will you?' He raised his hand to an amulet around his neck. There was another blue flash of light, and the Camonna Tong thug was gone.

'Neloth kicked Farethi out of his tower?' Hasell said. 'May Leki defend us...'

A few Telvanni guards materialized on the doormat of the Imperial Cult. Several of them went inside, while some others disappeared with flashes of light and rushing sounds. Hrundi muttered a few Nordic oaths before looking at his friend again. 'I think we can safely say that this means war,' he said.

Behind them, out of the direction of Tel Naga, they could hear the now-familiar sound of thunderclaps.

* * *

The small tavern where Elise waited was probably a new place. The plaster on the outside walls wasn't sun-bleached and dirty yet, the tables were in quite good shape, and the floor smelled only a little of stale rice beer. It made for a nice place for travelers to stay, but things like cleanliness and the absence of foul smells made for a bad tavern. The sour-looking Imperial barkeep didn't make the atmosphere any better. He glanced over at her ever so often, looking distrustful.

Nothing to see here, Elise would think. There's just a Breton woman waiting for her Imperial lover here. She's paid for her drink and everything, so there's really nothing to worry about. You should really go back to doing barkeep-y things, like wiping the counter with that filthy rag you take everywhere, or perhaps throw out some drunken thugs.

Not that there were any drunken thugs. The only thing that came close was the slightly drunk and obviously homesick dark elf, who held a jug of sujamma and softly hummed old ashlander songs in his gravelly voice. Two wood elves were playing shells in the corner, teaching each other their sleight-of-hand skills. Their banter about everything and nothing was the only conversation going on. The three Argonians at the table next to Elise were just drinking, and at a steady pace at that. Sometimes they murmured some heavily accented words, but she could not make out what they were saying. They often glanced at the lone Dunmer at the bar, though, and that was enough to read their thoughts.

She didn't like the place, didn't like the way the barkeep looked at her, and she wished Cyronus would hurry up and get her out of here before things got ugly between the Argonians and that Dunmer. Here on the border the relationships between those two races were as strained as ever. The recent unrest in Cyrodiil hadn't helped—the Dunmer were a greedy sort, and the last time the Emperor had lost his grip the Arnesian War had happened. The Argonians looked young, so they couldn't probably have been there, but the flat look in their cold eyes said more than words.

The door creaked, and she quickly turned her head. _Please let it be Cyronus._

It wasn't. An Altmer in a mage's robe stepped in, taking in the room with one haughty glare while walking over to the bar. He threw a few coins and a folded note on the counter and then turned without saying a word. Before anyone could react to his sudden appearance, he was gone.

The barkeep quickly grabbed the note, accidentally pushing one of the coins off the counter as he did so. The coin tinkled loudly in the suddenly silent room, and it seemed like everybody breathlessly watched that little piece of brass spinning on the floor.

With an irritated grumble, the barkeep went over to retrieve the coin; and just then, the Dunmer swayed and dropped off his barstool, as limp as a sack of rice.

Elise saw the Argonians' passive faces taking on a delightful expression, and she felt a heavy weight drop into her stomach. She had to act fast, even though she didn´t like the situation. This Dunmer had gone down at a far too convenient moment, but if he really _was _drunk, she couldn't just sit here and watch the Argonians drag him out.

She acted on instinct. Molding her face into a semblance of extreme concern, she jumped out of her chair and hurried over to where the Dunmer lay. She shoved one of the Argonians out of the way to get there first, and she felt the presence of all three of them behind her as she knelt over the unmoving form of the Dunmer. 'Are you alright, sir?' she asked him.

'M'allright, ssera,' the mer slurred. Something in the back of her mind said that he'd just been waiting for the Altmer to deliver the note, that he wasn't really drunk… even though he certainly looked and acted the part.

'Why don't we take him from you?' one of the Argonians hissed behind her back. 'A proper lady shouldn't need to worry about common drunks.' A scaly claw gripped her shoulder. 'I really think I shall insist,' he added.

Violence it is, Elise thought grimly, whether the man is a spy or not. She stood up calmly, carefully brushing the dust from the floor off her cloak and, in the process, also very conspicuously loosening her katana in its sheath. In the corner of her eye she saw the barkeep sidle away towards the door. Then she turned around, hand on the hilt of her sword, and faced the Argonians. 'I think I'll keep him,' she said coolly.

She didn't know if she looked like trouble, but she certainly tried to. The Argonians'pointy-toothed grins fades slightly now they were facing an armed opponent, but then the one in front of her drew his dagger and the other two followed suit.

There was a scraping sound behind her, the sound of a drunk man gripping some stationary object and hauling himself to his feet. Elise saw the Argonians' eyes glance over to the man and did what they expected least. She dove forward; feinting with right hand towards her blade and bringing the clenched fist of her left hand up to smash it into the side of the nearest Argonian's face. She jumped forward, over his crumpling body, and drew her katana while turning around. The two that were left hesitantly backed up to the counter.

The counter was now empty, and the door crashed shut behind the Dark Elf's black cloak. Elise hissed angrily and found that the Argonians had made exactly the same sound. For a moment they stared at each other, the lizardmen and the Breton woman, each one of them wondering what to do next. Then they heard sounds from outside—a distressed yell from the barkeep, the gravelly voice of a Dunmer, and then very suddenly the slither of a sword being drawn. She knew that sword.

Elise barged towards the door, throwing it wide open to a very welcome sight: Cyronus. The less welcome sight was that he was currently fending off an attack from the Dunmer, who wielded a short blade and moved as smoothly as if he'd drank no sujamma at all. He probably hadn't, she reminded herself. 'You ungrateful little fetcher,' she grated, using the first Dunmer term that came to mind. 'You just _left _me in there!'

The mer jumped back, away from the fight. 'I didn't really ask for your help, you know,' he said in his grating voice, keeping his eyes firmly on Cyronus. The Imperial made no move to attack. 'I almost thought you were sabotaging my mission,' continued the Dunmer. 'You seem to have handled yourself quite well, though.'

'I just thought you were some drunk!' Elise said, well aware that Cyronus was looking at her with a completely mystified expression on her face. 'You were about to get dragged outside and dissected by some angry Argonians!'

'You should have thought better, then,' the Dunmer said sourly. To her surprise, he did another step back and sheathed his sword. 'You _are_ a Blade, after all.' And when they both just stood there and looked surprised, he shook his head disdainfully and said: 'If you will excuse me, I will be off now.'

He carefully began to walk backwards, apparently trying to get more distance between them so that he could make a run for it. Elise leveled her katana at him and deliberately paced forward. He began to walk back faster. 'What's in that note?' she asked grimly.

'I wouldn't have gone through all that trouble back there if I knew, now would I?' the Dunmer grated. With a sudden rushing sound and a flash of blue light, he was gone.

Elise sighed and walked back to Cyronus, sheathing her katana. 'What happened?' the Imperial asked, obviously too baffled to be angry at her yet.

'He recalled,' Elise said. 'Or he used intervention. Can't be sure here in Morrowind.'

'I mean, _what in Oblivion did you do_?'

Elise looked over to the Argonians. The two healthy ones were supporting their friend as they carefully stepped out of the inn. One of them was very quickly murmuring healing enchantments. Then she looked at the bloodied smear on the flagstones where she guessed the barkeep had lain. He was gone again; the trail of blood drops lead back inside his tavern.

She decided to go for the short explanation. 'I've blown our cover,' she said.

* * *

Somewhere in the far north, a lonely figure slowly walked through the knee-deep snow of Solstheim. The figure—it was clearly a man—was dressed in an odd assortment of clothes. Most of his attire consisted of ill-maintained glass armor, the cracked green spikes poking out at various angles through a battered, garish pink-and-orange robe. He wore two different gloves, one simple chitin glove and one ornate glove that looked a bit like a Dwemer one; his enchanted cuirass was an odd combination of fur and chain mail; his helmet was more like a mask, shaped in the semblance of a solemn bearded face; and he carried a beautiful white and purple tower shield on his back.

It looked, in short, like a rich madman had just been dropped into the snowy wasteland.

His attire wasn't the strangest thing about him, however. This stranger didn't wade through the snow like the native Nords did, or carefully walk over it like a Bosmer might, but he was melting a path through it with a flaming sword. It didn't work as fast as he might have hoped, but at least it prevented him from either getting soaked or wasting his magicka on levitation spells. It irritated him, though, and holding his sword in front of him all the time made his muscles ache.

The man stopped his tiring walk and sheathed the sword. He peered intently at a nearby hill slope, but he couldn't see very much with his helmet on. His ear caught on a sharp bit as he pulled the mask off, and he muttered a curse with his grating, ash-damaged voice before he looked at the hill again. He seemed to be a typical Dunmer—his scarred face was triangular, with high cheekbones and fiery red eyes, and he had the characteristic gravelly voice. Even native Dunmer had a hard time believing that this dangerous-looking man had been born an oval-faced, mellow-voiced Outlander. Everyone _knew_ he was one, however, and that made all the difference in the world.

He narrowed his red eyes against the glare of the snow as he surveyed his surroundings, taking care to look everything else before his gaze came to rest on the low hill, not far away from him. Resting against its slope was the snow-dusted carcass of something that looked a lot like a ship, though of course no normal ship should ever turn up this far from the sea.

'The airship,' the Dunmer noted with a kind of dull satisfaction. Somehow he didn't sound very impressed—he sounded more bored than anything else. He threw his helmet into the snow, pulled a journal out from a pocket in his tattered robe and jotted something down with a quill he conjured out of thin air. Then he put the journal away again and, with a grunt, put the oddly shaped helmet back on. He yelled in surprise as the helmet dumped a clump of snow into the back of his neck. With a quick gesture of his hand, the snow turned to steam. 'Bah,' he said.

He looked around for a few seconds more before he drew his sword again. 'You'd think _nobody_ on this entire planet is capable of doing their own chores,' he muttered. The curved blade immediately caught flame and he waved it around angrily, instantly vaporizing most of the snow around him. 'The second things go wrong they just yell for me. You'd think there were other freelance adventurers around, but _nooo_, only Saint Nerevar can kill the rat in my basement. It's a _very_ scary rat after all.'

He groaned and started towards the airship. '_Aaand_ now I'm talking to my sword… great. I hope it's just the cold getting to my brain.'

The pitiful broken shape of the airship seemed to mock him. You're doing it anyway, it seemed to say. You could have said no, you know.

'Maybe the madness is finally getting to me,' he sighed. 'That will solve a lot. I won't be saddled with my stupid conscience anymore, for example. I could just solve this Hunt thing by sinking the whole damn island into the ocean.' The man laughed softly to himself. 'I kind of like that. Maybe I'll just do it right now and congratulate myself on a job well done. Just think of it: no more stupid Nords! No more werewolves! The world would rejoice!'

He began to whistle an old Imperial song as he slowly trudged through the half-molten snow towards the patchwork airship. It didn't take him long to reach the carcass of the machine. He seemed more cheerful than before, simply sweeping past the frozen corpses of the crew as if they were some kind ugly of garden ornaments and instead examining the fallen ship with half a smile on his face. 'No wonder this thing didn't get far,' he murmured.

It didn't take him long to find the captain's last resting place, either. The Dunmer gave him one barely interested glance before the picking up the poor man's diary.

'Blah blah, things seemed to go well, blah blah, things started to get bad, blah blah scary stuff and we all died,' the man said. He closed the diary with a snap and put it into one of his pockets. 'Now _that_'s new,' he said sarcastically. He reached out and patted the frozen hand of the captain. 'Been there, done that, buddy. The only difference between you and me is that I survive that kind of things… it even gets boring after a while. I don't even notice the corpses anymore. It's kind of lonely, too.'

He paused for a second before adding: 'It beats being frozen solid, though.'

The Dunmer stood up and stepped outside the wreckage, his gauntleted hands already moving in the intricate patterns of a difficult Levitation spell. 'Let's get this on with,' he said grimly. 'After all, the Nerevarine has got to be home before supper.'

The spell took hold, and Dorvaim soared away from the fallen airship, up into the icy blue sky.


	3. Chapter 3: Of Knowledge and Alcohol

Hannat Zainsubani, currently a Mastermind of the Thieves Guild and 'guy-in-charge' of the still nameless and very loose alliance of the Nerevarine, sat on a chair outside of the Ald'Ruhn Mages Guild with a irritated frown on his face and a parchment scroll in his long-fingered hands. The scroll was filled from top to bottom with an expansive list of people. It didn't just contain names and addresses, it also listed their jobs, their religions, and even their ranks within Morrowinds' many factions—and the people named in it were almost all figures of some importance. In short, this list contained so much information that it was almost certainly priceless.

Unfortunately, the person who had written it had nearly made it intelligible. It wasn't the handwriting—whoever wrote this had a very clear, if a bit insecure hand of writing—but the great amount of crossed-out misspellings, hastily added notions and smeared-out blots of ink that added a great deal of difficulty for the reader. It was so bad that Hannat had been forced to move out of the gloomy half-light (and studious silence) of the guild hall to read by the clear light of the sun.

Normally he would have found sitting outside a blessing rather than a curse. Ever since he had been hauled out of the stinking darkness of Mamaea by a garishly clothed adventurer, Hannat had spent almost every waking moment out of doors. He loved feeling the wind on his skin, whether it was a gentle breeze or a winter storm, and at first he had even gotten sun-burned just to know what it felt like again. There was simply nothing like walking over the newly sprouted grass and looking up to see the open, ash-less sky above you instead of a low rocky ceiling.

Today, however, the lovely silence of the crisp winter afternoon was effectively strangled by what had to be the most irritating voice Hannat had ever heard, and that included Aengoth the Jeweler's awful whining. Of course, the voice alone wouldn't have been that much of a problem if the guy would just shut up. But he didn't. The guy was very talkative for someone who had proclaimed himself to be very shy; and after a halting start he had started to ramble away, apparently deciding that the man next to him was not dangerous.

Hannat didn't think of himself as particularly scary, but he knew that this was the result of being a close friend to some people who were considered, even among Morrowind's violent society, frightfully dangerous. His own appearance was had always been at best described as 'I don't like that goatee', and at worst as: 'The Camonna tong is after us! Run for your lives!'. He could live with that. After all, he looked positively friendly when compared to the people he usually went on drinking sprees with. Most of them were either walking armories who tipped in their sujamma through their closed visors, or crazy-eyed mages in blood-splattered robes who went on loudly about setting people on fire. One or two of them were a strange mix of both. When their ensemble walked into a bar, you could be sure that it was already half empty—by then, most of the regulars had already quietly filed out of the back door.

The point was that even if you ignored how scary the guy next to you looked, this man had still forgotten that no one in his right mind would ever risk important things—like his life, for example—on the patience of an already irritated Dunmer. Calling Louis Beauchamp 'in his right mind' was an insult to most regular madmen, however. This guy was completely cuckoo.

'I say, friend, what is your name anyway?'

Hannat was startled out of his reverie by the loud, questioning voice of the Breton, and he had gripped the hilt of his dagger before he realized what was going on. 'My name is not important,' he growled in a dangerous tone of voice. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw the Breton look questioningly at his right arm. Hannat quickly started patting around as if he was searching for something in the pockets inside his cloak. His irritated look was completely unfeigned.

'I always loose things in there, too,' Louis said, nodding sympathetically. 'One day I was checking my pockets—I was going to wash my cloak, you know, hadn't done that in ages—and I found a nest of mice in there! And you know what the weird thing is?' The man let his voice drop to a whisper.

'Well?' Hannat asked tiredly.

'I don't even remember putting them in there!'

'Ah,' said Hannat, turning his attention back to the list. He found that his mind actually recoiled in horror from having to wrestle with that monstrous collection of inkblots and badly worded descriptions again, and he rolled it up with a sigh. Perhaps it was better to let a trained decoder transcribe this thing before looking at it again. There was time enough—after all, it wasn't like Dorvaim would be done plodding around Solstheim for another month or so.

He suddenly realized that Louis was looking at him again, and, more importantly, that the guy had fallen silent. Apparently he had asked a question. 'Sorry,' Hannat said. 'Did you ask something?'

'I know a very good doctor if you've got trouble with your hearing,' the Breton supplied.

'I was concentrating on something else,' Hannat snapped.

'Oh, all right,' Louis said, shrinking back a little. 'I was just asking if you're a teacher, that's all.'

'A _teacher?_'

'Yes,' said Louis, as if it were the most logical thing in the world. He gestured at the tightly rolled scroll. 'Whoever wrote that thing hasn't been writing for very long yet. He—or she, of course, wouldn't want to be sexist after all… girls can write just as well as boys, or at least, that's what they tell me anyway…' He caught Hannat's dark glare and continued hastily: 'Well, what I'm saying is that this person is trying their best, but he just isn't very good at it yet. Or she. Yet. So I thought that maybe you were correcting some student's work.'

'You can tell that from just a glance?' Hannat said. He felt rather surprised at this lunatic showing such an unexpected amount of skill.

'Child's play, really.' The Breton shrugged. 'If you'd let me look at that thing again, I could also tell you if it was a boy or a girl, and if he or she was in a hurry when he or she wrote it. Things like that.' His look suddenly turned pensive. 'Is a piece of parchment a he or a she, anyway? Your language is pretty crazy, you know. I always mix your pronouns up.'

For a brief moment Hannat just wanted to yell: 'It was written by the damn NEREVARINE!' into the oblivious Breton's face. But then the thief in him took charge again, held up the scroll, and slowly rolled out the top part. It had to do with the Offices of the Watch in Vivec, and the main entry was almost blotted out by the huge amount of extra information scribbled around it.

Louis looked intently at the scroll. 'Male,' he said after just a few seconds. 'His phrasing is rather mature, though, even if he's still new to the notion of writing things down. He's probably a perfectionist, and he has an astute sense of observation, too.' Then the Breton blanched slightly. 'And he has a _very _dangerous sense of humor.'

Hannat remembered the passage—something having to do with laughing in the face of an Ordinator who had been struck with an incurable itching curse. It was in bad taste, of course, but Hannat had found it quite funny. Then he caught the curious glare of the Breton and quickly rolled up the scroll again. 'Sorry,' he said. 'Classified.'

'Aww,' said Louis, his expressive face changing from happy curiosity to a kind of puppy-eyed sadness.

'How did you do that?' Hannat asked suspiciously.

'How do I do what?'

'Know those things about… whoever wrote this,' the thief said. He narrowly avoided saying 'about the Nerevarine'.

Louis puffed out his chest in self-importance. 'I told you I was a scholar of some notability, didn't I? This is just one of my many great skills.'

'Like building disappearing airships?' Hannat suggested.

Louis went off into a long-winded explanation of why he _was_, truly, a very learned man and that he had built a _great _airship which undoubtedly must have been struck by an _enormous _disaster to get waylaid this badly, but the thief didn't really listen. At first he had gathered that Edwinna had only allowed this man to loiter on her doorstep out of pity. Now, however, it seemed that the crazy Breton could actually be useful—and she probably knew that, too.

'… and I _told _them to check the fuel supply every half hour, but they probably just didn't listen to me.' Louis sighed. 'Nobody ever listens to me,' he complained.

'_I _listen to you,' Hannat said smoothly.

Louis's face brightened noticeably. 'That's true,' he said. 'It's a shame that you aren't a girl, of course—I wish I could make the girls listen to me…'

Hannat made sure that the Breton didn't see him roll his eyes. 'Do you know anything about the Dwemer?' he asked then.

'… you're very nice, of course, but you lack certain… what?' Louis blinked his eyes. 'My dear friend,' he said, sounding somewhat offended, 'my whole airship ran on Dwemer technology! And I dare say it worked quite well. It probably survived countless storms before getting caught up in whatever awful thing has caused it to be delayed that much.' He frowned. 'I _do _hope that guy I sent after them will manage to catch up with it.'

That bit was new to Hannat. 'You actually sent someone after it?' he asked. It was more in the way of action than he'd ever thought the guy would take. 'You must have searched a long time to find someone crazy enough. No-one in his right mind goes to Solstheim in the dead of winter.'

'Oh, he was crazy alright,' Louis said smugly. 'I might be a bit scatter-brained at times, but I'm not going to Solstheim. I'm not stupid.' Hannat had to suppress a laugh at that remark. The Breton didn't notice, but rambled on: 'The man seemed kind of eager to go off there anyway. I couldn't see his face because of all his armor, but I think he might be a Nord. It would explain the eagerness.'

Hannat nodded vaguely, his mind already on different matters. Edwinna was greatly interested in the Dwemer, of course, and she would take advantage of any opportunity to learn more about them. It would explain why she let this idiot stand outside her neat Guild and harass her visitors.

'Are you a teacher, anyway?' the Breton said.

'No,' Hannat said tiredly, 'I'm not.' He had already decided on the answer to the following question ('what do you do, then?') when he noticed that Louis had fallen back to rambling about that pretty Imperial girl he once talked to.

The thief got op, looked over his shoulder at the still-talking Breton, and silently tiptoed over to the entrance of the Mages Guild. Louis probably didn't hear him, because he was still talking as Hannat shut the door firmly behind him. Hannat silently thanked Azura that one talkative bearded mage wasn't in the hallway—the guy would probably have received a punch in the face before he could even open his mouth—and went to his chamber to put the scroll away. 'Why does everybody want to talk to me, anyway?' he muttered irritably.

'It's because of your sunny disposition,' a female voice noted from close by. 'Or perhaps it's just that _magnificent _soul patch of yours.'

'Oh, hi Ivrosa,' said Hannat without turning around. 'Didn't you have some underlings to bully?' he asked. 'Somewhere in the general vicinity of Dagon Fel, perhaps?'

Her footsteps followed him. 'You're in a rare mood today, Hannat,' she said. 'You're venomous, but not sharp. Did that idiot Louis pull your fangs by accident?'

'It's more like I wore them down,' Hannat said. He stopped at his door and drew a lock pick out of one of his many pockets, not bothering to pat himself down in search for the key. 'I think that guy really only hears himself.'

'You _know_ Edwinna wants you to stop picking her locks,' Ivrosa said disapprovingly. 'It damages them.'

'She's a hypocrite. Most of the mages here go about locking and unlocking stuff by magic, and that damages them even more.' He heard a rustling sound, which probably meant that she was now sitting on the balustrade of the gallery. Edwinna didn't like that, either, but somehow Hannat didn't really feel like pointing it out. Instead he crouched before the door, put the lock pick in, and started prodding.

'Anyway, the guy seems to trust you a lot,' Ivrosa said. 'It's funny. He just mumbles and stammers to the rest of us, you know.'

'It's probably because most of you are women,' he said. 'He thinks women are very important.'

He could almost feel her broad smile on his back. 'Well, we are,' she said. 'I think I like him a lot more already.'

There was a satisfactory _click _from the door. 'Why don't you ask him on a date?' Hannat suggested, getting up and stepping into his room. 'He'll probably faint on the spot, but that's just his way of saying that you're important, isn't it?'

'Well, he's able to talk to you,' Ivrosa said. 'I'll just take you along, and then you can translate for us.'

'I still don't know why he likes me so much,' Hannat grumbled. In the background, he could hear Ivrosa whisper 'soooul paaatch'. He put the scroll away in a desk, locking it with a small key and dropping the key in a random pocket. Then he walked around the bed and sat down on its edge, facing Ivrosa. She sat calmly on the rather thin balustrade, the serious expression on her face enhanced by the blue light in the hallway. There were bags under her eyes, he noted, and her cheeks were very hollow, even for a Dunmer. The transfer from the Ascadian Isles to Ald'Ruhn probably didn't agree with her. She might banter with him as always, but she certainly didn't _feel_ like always.

Hannat decided to get this over with quickly. 'Let's hear it,' he said in his most businesslike tone.

'Ringleader Ivrosa Verethi reporting for duty, Mastermind,' she said, and she wasn't joking this time. She cleared her throat. 'We've got a message from Solstheim. Apparently the priestess of the Gnisis Temple, Mehra Drora, found this letter fluttering around when she was sweeping her courtyard this morning.' She reached into her pocket and drew out a worn-looking piece of parchment. Someone had scrawled _Hannat Zainsubani, Sneaky Guy, probably in Ald'Ruhn_ on top of it.

'No-one in Gnisis has reported any unusual activities,' Ivrosa continued. 'We suspect that Dorvaim hasn't been there himself. It seems like he has managed to cast Almsivi Intervention on the letter only.'

'That's a novelty,' Hannat murmured, rising to take the parchment from Ivrosa.

'He has always been a bit unconventional,' she agreed. For some reason, her eyes were sparkling mischievously as she said that.

Hannat suppressed a sigh. 'Is it that bad?' he asked, looking down at the folded letter. 'That scroll of his has damaged my eyes enough for today.'

'Just read it.'

He sat down again and carefully opened the folded parchment, revealing a long letter that looked like someone had deliberately soaked it and wrung it out a couple of times. It was, however, surprisingly readable.

It started with _Happy New Year Hannat!_ Hannat sighed. 'I it looks like he's celebrated winter solstice with the locals.'

_You're probably wondering why I've gone off to Solstheim without stopping by to see you. I was planning to visit you guys first before doing anything else, but fate, as usually, intervened. Don't worry—no-one has handed me a prophecy yet. It was pretty clear, however, that something wanted me to go here. After I'd skewered Almalexia—_Hannat winced—_everyone I spoke to managed to say something about Solstheim. It was almost like they all had cosmic instructions to do so. _

'Yes, Hannat,' Ivrosa said pleasantly, 'he just used the word 'skewered' to describe what he did to Morrowind's most popular god.'

_I was really fed up with the cosmic stuff at that point, so I ignored them and travelled back to go and speak with Vivec. Then I went north in search of you, and I managed to get as far as Ald'Ruhn before fate (Azura?) stopped nudging and gave me a hint that was nothing short of a punch to the face. _

'Sometimes I want to punch him in the face, too,' Hannat muttered.

'I don't think you'd survive that,' said Ivrosa.

'I think it's worth the risk,' the thief said angrily. 'That bastard was here in Ald'Ruhn! He probably stood on our _doorstep _when he decided to go on this impromptu mission of his! It's always this way with him. Anytime we need him he's off to fight outlaws or to extinguish burning orphanages or whatever.'

'Or rescuing over-confident thieves from Sixth House bases,' Ivrosa murmured.

'Touché.'

He looked at her to find that she was calmly cleaning her nails with the point of a curved fighting knife. Her expression was surprisingly solemn. 'You don't get it, do you?' she said.

'Get what?' Hannat snapped.

'You're the most thief-like thief I've ever met,' Ivrosa said. 'You sneak, you lie, and you cheat, and it's all because you don't like to follow the rules. For you things like laws and orders are like the bars of a cage, and you strive to escape them as much as you can.' She sighed. 'It's not like that for everyone. Dorvaim has his orders, too, you know.'

'Azura,' said Hannat disapprovingly.

'He doesn't _like _her orders, Hannat, but he doesn't have to. All he has to do is follow them. Sometimes the world is like that. You can't imagine submitting to that kind of thing, but for most of us it's a part of life.'

'You're a thief, too,' he said accusingly.

She smiled vaguely. 'I'm a part of this guild, yes,' she said. 'But I'm not like you. Being a thief is not in my nature. I've always been a master-at-arms, and no amount of your bad influence is going to change that.'

'Like Dorvaim.'

Ivrosa nodded. 'I suppose so.'

Hannat sighed. He didn't entirely understand her argument, but it seemed to make sense in a rather vague way. Perhaps it's because she's a woman, he thought before looking back to the letter again.

_So now I'm here, in the snow. It's dull, it's cold, it's wet, and every piece of iron I took with me is now a chunk of rust. The landscape is all white, so there's not much sightseeing to do, and the wildlife isn't much fun either (although those bears I killed will probably make great rugs for back home). There are some werewolves scattered here and there, and they are enough of a fight to get your blood warm. They're pretty moderate in the way of entertainment, but that's more than I can say of the Nords. Every Nord I've met until now was unfriendly, half-drunk, smelly—_

(At this point Dorvaim had removed a lot of words by simply making inkblots on top of them.)

—_so today I got the idea to just sink the whole island into the ocean. It's a bad idea, of course, not in the least because I think Morrowind isn't quite ready for a war with Skyrim yet. To my surprise, I even found the idea of war with Skyrim more interesting than figuring this werewolf thing out. I guess this is what feeling bored is like. After a while, every quest is the same, and I've found that all frozen dead bodies look alike. _

_It's not like I'm not keeping busy, but all this stuff is just becoming… tedious, I guess that the word is. _

And 'blasé' is a good word to describe _you_, my friend, Hannat thought ruefully. The average werewolf probably ate Nord for breakfast, and those guys were tough fighters. He shuddered at the thought of ever having to face such a monster in single combat. It probably _was _true that Dorvaim didn't find them much to a challenge—but then again, Dorvaim was the Nerevarine. How could a werewolf ever be considered more than an appetizer if you always had half-god for dinner?

Hannat decided that Dorvaim was allowed to find werewolves minor nuisances, but that he definitely ought to learn not to rub that fact into people's faces.

_I'd rather be home with you and Ivrosa—maybe to make a start to my political career or something like that. That's why I've decided to take a few days off in the near future. The third week from now would suit me rather fine. _

Hannat blinked and read the last sentence again. 'Three weeks?' he asked Ivrosa, startled by the sudden change of tone in the letter.

She nodded. 'I think he trusts you.'

'Are you trying to be funny?' Hannat demanded. 'Three weeks to bring everyone together—_everyone_?'

'It's not impossible, Hannat.'

'Neither is swimming to Akavir.'

She sighed. 'Sometimes I think you're only this difficult because you know it annoys me. We'll call a gathering of our friendly factions tomorrow and let _them _break their skulls over this problem.'

Hannat crossed his arms. 'Well then, _Captain Verethi_, let me annoy you a little more. Have you ever considered what those 'friendly factions' might think about each other?'

Ivrosa frowned. 'You mean like the Telvanni and the Mages' Guild?'

'Yes, _exactly _like those two.'

'If we select the most reasonable representatives...'

Hannat sighed. 'Let's have it your way-for the sake of the argument. We'll make sure that the Telvanni send their most progressive members, like Master Aryon and... Fast Eddie, I guess. And then we'll have the Mages' Guild send _their _most tolerant members.'

'Skink is their top man,' said Ivrosa. 'He's a extremely reasonable guy. I don't think I've ever seen him get angry about _anything_.'

Hannat gave her a level gaze. 'You do remember that Skink is an extraordinarily fierce anti-slavery campaigner, don't you?'

She nodded. 'But Dorvaim forced the Telvanni to abolish slavery, didn't he?'

'So the Telvanni have already made concessions.' Hannat said. 'Against their will, I might add. And the Mages are smug about the fact that justice has been done.'

'But...' Ivrosa tried to interrupt him.

'That's enough of that!' Hannat snapped. He rose from the bed and started pacing across the room. 'Putting them in a room together and asking them to be nice won't solve this. They won't put their hereditary enmity behind them. Why would they? They'd have to forget about several ages of power struggles, mutual betrayal and bloodshed. They'd have to put aside the fact that they still, on a very acute and personal level, _completely disagree about how Morrowind should be governed._' He shook his head. 'Face it, Ivrosa! The only thing that connects the Telvanni and the Mages is that Dorvaim's their boss. 'Very reasonable' or not, Aryon and Skink would probably burn each other to cinders on the spot.'

Hannat stopped his pacing and looked at Ivrosa. She was very pale, and her hands clutched the banister so tightly he saw the tendons in his arms stand out. 'Then what do you propose we do, Mastermind?' she whispered.

He didn't know, but he wasn't about to falter. Not now. 'Go outside and fetch that crazy Breton for me, Ivrosa.'

She just stared.

'Ringleader!' Hannat reprimanded.

Ivrosa, still wide-eyed, blinked once in confusion. 'Mastermind.' Then she was gone.

Hannat lifted Dorvaim's letter again. He ignored the shaking of his hands and read the last few sentences.

_Make sure I'll get an appointment with Tholer. Have you convinced him yet? Wait, never mind, you can't answer that question like this anyway. Tell me when I'm here. _

_You should also get someone to my tower. Make sure they know how to avoid tripping the alarms_—_or tripping over my stuff, for that matter. There's a box on the mantle in my sleeping room. There's ten grey, sort of plumb-bob shaped stones in there. They need to go to Folms Mirel in the Caldera Mages Guild; he'll make a thing called the 'Master Index' from them if you pressure him a bit. I'll send another letter in a week, and you'll need to have that Master Index by then. _

_I think that's all for now. Have fun being out in the sun, Hannat. I envy you. _

—_Dorvaim_

_PS: give Ivrosa my regards, will you? And try be a bit nicer, the transfer's been hard on her. _

Hannat looked up from the letter. He now had another tough nut to crack—Dorvaim wanted Tholer Saryoni, and thus the Church, to be included in their inner circle. He hoped that the old man had recovered a bit... and if not, that the dissident priests had at least managed to get a foothold within the Church.

And those plumb-bob-things—he would probably go to Tel Uvirith himself, seeing that not many people were capable of sneaking past the tower's defenses. According to Dorvaim, 'the best defense is one that can't be switched off'. It mostly meant that anybody who a) wasn't a master thief or b) couldn't levitate would be cut to ribbons by the Nerevarine's very own Dwemer Centurions.

There were footsteps in the hallway. Hannat looked up to see a very distraught Louis Beauchamp being herded into the room by a rather grim-faced Ivrosa. 'Any other orders, Mastermind?' she asked coolly.

Hannat waved with the letter. 'Did anybody else read it?'

'It was cursed. The only one who could have read it was Edwinna, seeing that she is the one who broke the spell.'

He nodded. 'Thank you, Ringleader.' He hesitated, and then added: 'Take the rest of the day off, Ivrosa. You've earned it.'

Her eyes narrowed in suspicion, but he made a shooing motion with his hand. 'That's all.'

Louis made a sound that, arguably, could have been translated as: 'bye Ivrosa'.

Ivrosa turned on her heels and left. Hannat watched her go with a sensation of unrest in his stomach. Perhaps Dorvaim was right—he often _was _a bit harsh on Ivrosa, even if it had never been as bad as today. Perhaps the stress of being in charge was getting to him.

His reverie was broken by a very audible whisper from Louis: 'She's very pretty, isn't she?' Then he nervously glanced around, as if making sure that she was out of earshot.

Hannat blinked. 'I—she—what?'

'I think she likes you,' Louis added softly. 'But I think she's also upset with you. You could be a bit nicer to her, you know?'

'I—yeah,' said Hannat. 'Yeah, I know. I should be... nicer to her.' He frowned. Getting involved with Ivrosa had been the last thing on his mind. She was attractive, of course, but in a harsh-faced, battle-scarred sort of way. Calling her 'pretty' was quite a ways off the mark. He wasn't sure she was his type. He wasn't sure he was _her _type, for that matter, because she liked guys with big expensive swords and...

He shook his head. 'Anyway,' he said, more to collect his thoughts than to say anything. From the corner of his eye, he saw that Louis sat on the bed and was now eyeing him expectantly.

'I should probably apologize to Ivrosa later,' Hannat said somewhat lamely. He wondered how he was going to tackle this. He needed Louis' help with the list, and for that he needed to know if he could trust the guy.

Louis nodded.

'But right now you're probably wondering why I've called you here,' he continued. Not the most original start, but he saw Louis shifting closer to the edge of the bed. 'The truth is, Louis, that I need your help. _We _need your help. Morrowind...'

'Who are 'we' here exactly?' Louis interrupted. 'I mean, I only met you this afternoon. You're a nice guy, of course, and Ivrosa's nice to look at, but let's be honest here...'

'Louis,' Hannat said. 'Have you ever heard of the Nerevarine?'

Louis nodded solemnly. 'It's an exotic fruit tree from Valenwood.'

'We're—_what?_'

'Fruit tree,' said Louis. 'From Valenwood. Very rare, or so I've heard.'

There was a moment of dumbfounded silence as Hannat tried to process what he had just heard. 'You—you know about Kangrenac, right?' he said lamely.

Louis frowned. 'What does he have to do with fruit trees?'

'Oh, come on!' Hannat growled. 'You can't be _that _daft! You're an expert on the Dwemer, for Azura's sake!'

Louis shrank back. 'I think I misheard something,' he stammered.

'KAN-GRE-NAC,' Hannat said loudly.

'No—no, the other one.'

'Nerevarine,' said Hannat. 'NER-EH-VAR-INE. You know. The incarnation of Indoril Nerevar.'

The crazy scholar fidgeted. 'Now _him _I've heard of.'

'That's _great,_' Hannat said sarcastically. Then he suddenly remembered who he was dealing with and added: 'I'm sorry, Louis. I'm just... stressed is all.'

Louis very slowly reached out, as if to a skittish animal. For a second, it seemed that he wanted to put his hand on Hannat's shoulder. Then he realized that he couldn't reach that high while sitting down and instead awkwardly patted the thief's elbow.

'Thanks,' said Hannat.

'Do you know that you're a _very _scary guy when you get angry?' Louis asked him timidly.

'I've been told so.' The thief sighed. 'Let's get down into the main hall and grab a drink,' he suggested.

The scholar nodded. 'I could do with a glass of water.'

Hannat grinned. 'Something a bit stronger, I reckon.'

'But I don't drink!' Louis protested.

Hannat grabbed the scholar firmly by the shoulder and hauled him upright. 'You're going to need it, Louis. Getting drunk expands your... credulity. I think you'll be able to appreciate that. This whole mess makes more sense when you're drunk anyway.'

* * *

The worn-down bar where they met was located in a basement in one of the less reputable parts of Mournhold. The place was filled to the brim with people, most of them dunmer, and the air reeked of spilled sujamma and sweat. A large majority of the clients openly wore weapons. All of them seemed dangerous, and the huge gash that split the battered counter in two was mute evidence of the fact that things could get very nasty in here.

A tough-looking servant had directed the altmer towards an empty table in the back. The rest of the place was completely choked with people, but they almost respectfully kept their distance to that rickety table. It made the altmer feel more than a little bit on edge. Apparently the Camonna Tong thug he was going to meet was quite a bit more important—and a bit more dangerous—than he had previously guessed.

The barkeep came and put two tin cups and a bottle of flin on the table. The altmer nodded in thanks, but before he could pay the man, he was gone already.

'Drinks are on me, outlander,' a grating voice said. 'That is, if you brought the money.'

The altmer turned his head to see a surprisingly scar-less, red-haired dunmer sit on the chair across the table. He hadn't been there three seconds ago, and for a moment the altmer thought that he might have teleported in. There was no smell of magic in the air, however, and he came to the conclusion that the mer was simply quick on his feet—and very quiet, too.

'I have,' the altmer said, softly patting the pouch at his belt.

It produced a muffled clinking sound, and the dunmer looked satisfied. 'Good.' He grabbed the flin and filled both of the cups to the brim. 'May our words be fruitful,' he said.

'Sun shine on you,' said the altmer. The dunmer gave him a strange look before he downed the flin in one careless gulp. The altmer managed to empty his own cup without choking. It wasn't so much the taste—it tasted great—but it was also stronger than anything he'd ever drank before. The dunmer watched him with an impassive, red-eyed gaze as he wiped his eyes. 'Strong stuff,' the altmer explained.

'Let's get to business,' the dunmer said, pouring both of them a second cup.

The altmer suspected that his watery eyes had just caused the dunmer to lose a lot of his respect for him. 'I am grateful for the opportunity to speak with you,' he started.

The dunmer bared his teeth in an unpleasant grin. 'Don't be, outlander. You've brought heavy imperial coin, and you'll trade it for nothing but words.'

'Some words are worth more than money can buy.'

'Yes,' said the dunmer, 'and I'm not going to speak any one of those to you.'

The altmer frowned. 'Very well,' he said. 'Let's introduce ourselves then. My name—

'You know for who I speak,' interrupted the Dunmer. 'I suspect for who you speak. Isn't that enough?'

'My name is Faënor,' the altmer said. He took a sip of his flin, taking care not to let anything he thought about it show on his face.

The dunmer sighed. 'It is expected that I lie about my name now, isn't it?' he said. There was a hint of a smile hovering around his lips. 'Very well. My name is Veloth. I am glad to know your fake name, Faënor.'

The altmer sighed. 'You dunmer have a strange sense of humor.'

Veloth shrugged. 'Perhaps,' he said. 'Perhaps not.' Then he straightened in his chair. 'You offered me money for answers, Faënor. Ask away.'

The altmer felt that he needed to tread very carefully here. The dunmer obviously followed a very different set of rules than he did. 'I want to know about the Nerevarine,' he said.

'Ah,' said Veloth. He didn't look surprised. 'All the outlanders want to know about him. You could have asked any mer on the street, and he would have been happy to answer you for a few coins. Why ask me? Why give me so much money for an answer that anyone could give?'

Normally, Faënor would have told the guy off—he was the one that had paid to ask the questions, after all. This time, however, he wasn't so sure. 'I want to know how strong he is.'

The dunmer obviously had expected such an answer. He slowly raised the cup of flin to his lips and took a sip, never taking his red-eyed gaze off the altmer's face. 'I have never fought him, sera, and I am glad for it.'

'Someone from your guild must have fought him in the past three years,' Faënor said. He himself knew of at least one instance from early in the Nerevarine's career. There had been a report from Fort Moonmoth about two and a half years ago—a report about a rogue agent who had killed off all the local Camonna Tong thugs. It was exactly the kind of thing associated with the Nerevarine… and the man had been in Balmora at that time.

One plus one was almost always two.

'He has killed several of ours,' Veloth said slowly, 'including two of our best. We have learned that it is best for us to stay out of his way.'

He looked intently at Faënor, who nodded. He got the hint. The Camonna Tong wouldn't help him to take out the Nerevarine—no matter how much money he might offer. 'Is he that dangerous?' he asked.

'He is,' said the dunmer. 'He slew Dagoth Ur underneath Red Mountain, at the heart of his power, and that is no mean trick.' Apparently he saw the skepticism in Faënor' eyes, for he continued: 'He killed the one who could not be defeated by the combined might of our three gods. That should say enough.'

'And then he proceeded to kill two of those gods,' Faënor said. He couldn't help himself. 'Not very god-like if you ask me.'

Veloth's eyes grew dark. 'You might say otherwise if you had ever been in the presence of one of them, outlander.'

The altmer shook his head. 'I've got a hard time believing all that. I mean, he is just one man—or well, a mer I guess. He might be tough, but he is made of flesh and bones like anyone else.'

'Keep believing that, outlander, and you'll find yourself dead soon.' Veloth tipped back the rest of his flin and poured yet another one. As an afterthought he also refilled the altmer's glass. 'He wields the weapons of Daedra,' the dunmer mused. 'They say he has a tower in the Ashlands, guarded by dwemer constructs and filled to the brim with the most ancient and powerful artifacts imaginable.'

'You're talking about him as if he's immortal,' Faënor said. He felt that he was treading on dangerous ground now, but he nevertheless pushed on. He needed to know. 'He isn't, you know. He's probably closer to something like—well, let's say, invulnerable. What I want to know is how invulnerable he is.'

Now the dunmer was playing with the candle that stood in the middle of the table, moving his long fingers slowly through the flame and then examining the soot stains on his ashy skin. 'He's invulnerable enough,' he murmured. 'Put the thought of killing him out of your head, outlander. He is the incarnation of Indoril Nerevar.'

'That's just superstition,' scoffed the altmer.

The dunmer shrugged. 'He wears the moon-and-star,' he said. 'If he truly is Nerevar incarnated, then you'll probably need three demigods to kill him, just like the last time—and he was wounded back then.' He looked up. 'Even if he isn't, you're dealing with more than you can handle. He's got a Daedric Prince backing him up.'

'What if I don't believe in those, either?' Faënor tried.

'Then you're impossibly dense,' Veloth said scathingly. 'They have temples to the Daedric Princes in Cyrodiil, too, don't they?'

Faënor just pressed his lips together. He wasn't sure how the dunmer knew that he was a Cyrodiil altmer, and he wasn't going to give him any more information.

After a short pause, Veloth moved on. 'Even if you do not believe in Azura, perhaps you'll believe that he has the support of the King, the Duke of Vvardenfell, and of the three Great Houses of Vvardenfell. That ought to be enough mortal support.' He took a long drink of his flin again, setting the cup back on the table with a dry tick. 'The Dark Brotherhood tried to take him out, you know. Not just once, but four times.'

This was the kind of information Faënor had been looking for. 'How effective were they?' the altmer inquired.

'He's still alive, isn't he?' The dunmer grinned humorlessly. 'The Dark Brotherhood has never really recovered, however. It appears that the Nerevarine was just a little bit angry about these attempts on his life. He followed the assassins' trail to the mainland, infiltrated their lair, and proceeded to wipe out half of their top members.' With a sudden, hissing sound, Veloth pinched out the flame, covering their table in shadow.

Faënor felt a shiver run down his spine. So it was true. The Dark Brotherhood of Morrowind had been decimated by the Nerevarine—and almost as an afterthought, too. 'This was after the death of Dagoth Ur?' he informed. 'If that's so, whoever ordered it must have paid them a fortune.'

Veloth's grin broadened. 'It did.'

'Who ordered it?'

'Classified,' said the dunmer. He narrowed his eyes and looked intently at the altmer. 'No use trying to buy it either. Information like that is worth more money than you can ever offer.'

Faënor shifted in his chair, putting his elbows on the table and gazing over his folded hands at the dark elf. 'I noticed that your guild wouldn't try to take him out.'

'You noticed right. He's on both the red list and the white list.'

'And that means…?'

Veloth sighed. 'Red means that the target is too dangerous to assassinate. White means that we can't take writs on them because they're on our list of allies.'

'Allies?' Faënor scoffed. 'You guys have no allies.'

'Orvas Dren himself whitelisted him,' said Veloth. 'Go to him if you have any objections.'

'I don't think I'd want to bother him,' Faënor said carefully. 'I'll take your word for it.'

'That's a healthy decision,' murmured the dunmer.

For a few moments, Faënor gazed quietly at the smoking candle. Two guilds of murderers down, he thought, one to go. 'Would the Morag Tong take out a writ on him?' he asked.

First the dunmer just looked very much surprised, but then he suddenly started to laugh. It was a coarse, barking sound, and he accompanied it by hitting the table with his fist a couple of times.

'What's so funny?' the altmer asked crossly.

'Heh, heh, heh,' the dunmer said. 'You outlanders have a funny sense of humor, you know.'

'I wouldn't call this funny.' Faënor said in a dangerous tone of voice. He had the vague feeling that the dunmer had been mocking him all this time, but now it was just getting offensive.

'Oh, but it is. Heh.' The mer shook his head and wiped one of his eyes with his sleeve. 'You guys just… barge into Morrowind and throw a heap of money on the table, thinking it will solve all your problems for you. That is very funny.' He shook his head. 'You outlanders are a crazy bunch.'

'Us outlanders?'

The dunmer made a broad gesture. 'Mostly you guys from Cyrodiil. You think you can buy anything. People from other places have more common sense.' He leaned forward, over the table. 'You've bought some words from me, and you've made me laugh, so I'm going to give you value for your money. Listen carefully.'

Faënor tensed just a bit, and the dunmer bared his teeth in an unpleasant smile. 'So ignorant,' he murmured. 'And so eager.'

'Get on with it,' the Altmer hissed. 'You're pressing your luck, you know. No words, no money.'

Veloth's smile didn't diminish. 'Next time you go to Morrowind, you should do some research beforehand. Learn about the ways of the land—the ways of the people, of the towns, and of the Houses. Learn who is important, who is strong, who is weak… and learn that you yourself are but an intruder. You are an ant in the wrong anthill.' The dunmer rose from his chair. 'You know what happens to those, right?'

'They die,' the altmer said flatly. Was this dunmer threatening him?

The dunmer nodded. 'And then they get eaten,' he said, without even blinking. 'I'll give you one extra bit of information for free. The Nerevarine is an important man, and he has rank in almost every guild and order in Morrowind. He's head of the Thieves' Guild, a Master of House Telvanni…'

'I know that already,' Faënor said irritably.

'He's also the Grand Master of the Morag Tong,' said Veloth.

Faënor felt his face twitch slightly, and inwardly he cursed himself for showing his surprise.

The dunmer sighed. He thoughtfully rapped the table with his knuckles. 'Some more advice, outlander,' he said. 'Get out of Morrowind. You should stay somewhere in Cyrodiil until you know enough to stay alive around here. In the meantime, you should write some letters to my master. He might have a business proposal for you—if your knowledge of us improves.'

'I'll consider it,' the altmer said coolly.

'You think I'm insulting you,' Veloth said. He smiled his mocking smile again. 'You might be right. You might not be. You don't know us, outlander.' He held out his hand, not questioning, but demanding. 'I know you, however, and that leaves me ad an advantage.'

Faënor scowled, but he still handed the dunmer a heavy pouch. 'You're a very unpleasant man to deal with,' he said.

'That's why you wanted to speak to me in the first place, isn't it?' Veloth said. He bowed his head. 'It was a pleasure dealing with you,' he murmured. Then he turned and walked away, roughly pushing his way through the rowdy crowd with his head held high as if he owned the place.

'I bet you enjoyed it,' the altmer muttered darkly at the dunmer's back. Then his gaze suddenly came to rest on something that gleamed at the dunmer's belt. He only saw it for a moment, just before its owner disappeared in the throng; but there was no mistaking it.

He wields the weapons of Daedra, the dunmer had said.

The Altmer whose name wasn't Faënor smiled just a little bit. 'And he isn't the only one in this godforsaken land who does,' he murmured. He now knew who he had spoken to, and that information was worth more gold than all the things the dunmer had told him.

His master had been right—the Camonna Tong was desperate indeed.


End file.
